Acta, Non Verba | Teen Ink

Acta, Non Verba

November 16, 2023
By makaylaNotFound GOLD, Shenzhen, Other
makaylaNotFound GOLD, Shenzhen, Other
10 articles 4 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"Though she be little, she is fierce."


Acta, non verba

The dream you bore in mind: to Thailand 

you trekked.

Rugged surfaces were gnawing away your 

feet, your respect,

Amid the heat.

You beseeched me “to wait,” and so I did

Bhante, they called you, then, in reverence

I was unable to imitate or utter.         

I awaited the dusks and dawns in despair, 

distress,          

Dreading my fate.                              

But do you miss the shade I offered?

Even as the bloodshed ended,

I stood alone, unattended, 

Obeying your command simply “to wait.”

 

Half a decade passed, before you returned 

from the shrine.

Seeing you in your saffron robe evoked the 

flowers of those vines,

My joy, which crept

Upon the shrubs from the soil to the tips of 

my legs,

Drowning my sobs to the top of my crown,

Bound to intertwine, not knowing soon 

I’d be shrouded by smoke, maligned, like 

the clouded leopards,

My duty to guard.

They once called me home,

Now sacrificed like playing cards:

I placed a heart, you lay down a spade,

the town, concerned with cash, 

a diamond played.

 

The curse, present in this place, 

to you long-known,

As trees are burned, I now witness alone–

To their tips, 

Smothered by money-driven hands.

My roots dug deep, yearning to make a 

stand

In this patch of my once lush land – our 

land

Now bald. Still, I stand 

Faithful to your command.

Langurs were gone for good; razors 

pushed, yet you rained. 

Hope, upon my lone leaves, the jays called 

home, restrained.

Silhouettes 

Expostulating, we stand, studying the 

strife,

Until you quieted down, for the sake of 

your own life.

 

Perhaps you and I shall let it be:

Let my trunk be ground through 

humanity’s machinery,

Scarred and smeared, 

Stifled under the burning fires.

Let them fabricate the magic that once was 

ours.

Let me shut my eyes as the dominoes go 

haywire:

The siren blaring, the firs clean cut, 

Nothing, but a snare,

I’m nothing but a pawn,

Helpless, among actions to abhor, to hate,

Obedient to your command, still now

I just wait.

 

How absurd that I’m left to dwell 

in a grave,

The boy had bad lungs, they say, and could 

not be saved.

Yet the air you breathe, I create;

The creatures you play with, I harbor;

The shade under which you slumber, I 

provide.

Generously, tenderly, selflessly, 

I stand under the stars, each night allayed,

Contemplating, vigilantly, bulletproof 

though disarmed,
I see you grow, as I grew rings, returning 

our land, our magic unharmed.

Perhaps as you ripen, deep to old age,
Perhaps I shall re-arise, 

As a slight gust of wind, to send chills 

down your spine,

As an aureolin daisy growing from this 

nurturing soil,

As a sapling gazing at you from afar.

When you toast to the townspeople,

You’ll rise and you’ll speak the truth:

“Acta, non verba,

I am not a hero; I am merely Bun Saluth.”


The author's comments:

An average human being lives around for 75 years. And the supposed ‘last generation’ fears being alive on doomsday when Earth’s storage runs out and we lack a Plan B. They dread that they are unable to resolve what the last generation has burdened on to their shoulders. They panic at the thought of resentment, vulnerability, and death – watching the world go haywire or even worse, being the last human alive on Earth. But looking at it in a different perspective, the natural habitats around us suffers to a much greater extent. A tree can live up to thousands of years; a river can last to tens of millions of 365-days. Like the tree in the poem, many of those that has existed before us and will exist after us may be standing helplessly, watching us slowly dismantling what was once theirs. That is, of course, if they surprisingly haven’t been given a huge trim by a tree razor or became a fat cat’s bath water. This is why I have chosen to take on a new perspective in describing hope in the perspective of one of the true owners of Earth – trees. If we have ever chosen to step into their shoes (or should I say, roots) we would find that there are those that suffers more greatly than us and depends on we human beings to bring this bloodshed to an end. In this poem, both the tree – resilient and selfless – and Bun Saluth – fearless and determined – are heroes. And you can be too. Acta, non verba. Take action now. 


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